


Lo, How A Rose E'er Blooming

by ladymelodrama



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV), Love Actually (2003)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, French cottage, Jamie/Aurelia but Jorah/Dany style, Love at First Sight, Marseille, Winter Jorleesi, tea and music and typewriters and hot chocolate, two lonely people falling in love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-03
Updated: 2019-12-12
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:13:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 16,678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21659605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladymelodrama/pseuds/ladymelodrama
Summary: A Jorah/Dany twist on the Jamie/Aurelia story fromLove Actually, written as part of our holiday Jorleesi fest <3
Relationships: Daario Naharis/Daenerys Targaryen (past), Jorah Mormont/Daenerys Targaryen, Lynesse Hightower/Jorah Mormont (past)
Comments: 241
Kudos: 103
Collections: A song of frosted bear kisses and dragon roasted chestnuts





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, friends :) So this is a multi-chapter holiday fic (8 chapters total). I’ll be posting one chapter a day for the next week and a half (except for 12/5 and 12/10 as we can expect new fics from ExultedShores and chyrssadirewolf on those days #Excited)…
> 
> For _Love Actually_ fans - fair warning, this wanders pretty far from the source material because my fingers type what they want sometimes. Not even sure where some of this came from but it seemed to work. Haha I think? But Jorah/Dany always seems to work <3 
> 
> Fun fact for my German readers, “Lo, How A Rose E’er Blooming” is “Es ist ein Ros entsprungen”:
> 
> Es ist ein Ros entsprungen  
> aus einer Wurzel zart,  
> wie uns die Alten sungen,  
> von Jesse kam die Art  
> Und hat ein Blümlein bracht  
> mitten im kalten Winter,  
> wohl zu der halben Nacht.
> 
> Also two quick notes on minor characters. I heart Jason Momoa so maybe don’t picture him as this version’s Drogo since he doesn’t come off that well? And my version of Olenna in this is equal parts Olenna/Diana Rigg’s French nun in _The Painted Veil_ because I had her speaking in her French accent in my head while I wrote this :)
> 
> And Daenerys Targaryen is Olenna Tyrell’s niece in this fic. Just because. 
> 
> Okay, I think that’s it. See you tomorrow. Xo

_Lo, how a rose e’er blooming_  
_from tender stem has sprung_  
_of Jesse’s lineage coming_  
_as men of old have sung_  
_it came a flower bright_  
_amid the cold of winter_  
_when half-spent was the night_

* * *

As Jorah unlocked the trunk of his car, he cast a glance down towards the cottage and the lake beyond. 

The air was crisp and the orange and yellow foliage of the oak and fig trees in the cottage’s front yard were falling off their grey branches in droves, joining a vibrant splash of mixed color below. The autumn breeze swept a few of those leaves down towards the lakeside, where they fluttered and settled on the water like paper boats.

A flock of cranes were flying overhead, honking their usual farewells as they made their journey further south. For the cranes, the crisp November weather of Southern France wouldn’t suit and they were bound for even warmer, more exotic shores.

But a secluded cottage in the south of France would suit Jorah just fine for the next six weeks. And he was glad the cranes were headed further south. The half dozen Rouen ducks that lived and quacked and paddled around the dock below the cottage were plenty of waterfowl for the place. And he didn’t really want _any_ company, whether feathered or otherwise.

He just wanted a little silence. A little time to think. Alone.

Finding your fiancé in bed with the next-door neighbor will do that to a person. And Lynesse’s betrayal was still raw, eating away at him whenever he allowed his thoughts to drift that way, the memory of his unlucky discovery still sharp as steel, made only a few weeks before.

* * *

They’d been invited to Jon and Ygritte’s wedding and there was no way to refuse, since the church was only two blocks from their flat. But Lynesse woke up with a head cold and she said she just wasn’t up for it, and “Oh, they’re your friends and there’s no reason to miss out on the festivities just because I’m under the weather and you can give them best wishes from both of us anyway…”

“You know I will,” he promised, leaning over their bed to give her a quick peck goodbye.

But she shied away from the kiss, turning her head, and his lips landed at her temple instead. She explained, “I don’t want to get you sick.”

“If we’re both sick, then I’d have an excuse to stay with you,” he countered, grinning slyly. She gave him a patient smile, less enthused. He told her, “You’re beautiful, you know? Even when you’re sick and blowing your nose a dozen times a minute and…”

“Ha!” she liked his flattery but was too used to hearing it, from him, from others, so she pushed him away with a little groan that he mistook for playfulness at the time. She said firmly, “Go. You’re going to be late.”

“Fine,” he answered, with a sigh. “But feel better, hmm?” He planted one last kiss at her forehead with a simple, “I love you.”

“Get out…loser,” she smirked, accepting his endearments with that crooked, nearly sultry grin that she’d used on him since the beginning, to such easy effect. Too easy. 

He should have known better, he should have seen it sooner. 

His family had expressed doubts about his choice from the beginning. They weren’t pleased when he uprooted his life, moving to London to be with her. His Aunt Maege said it outright, in her blunt way. And the girls, his cousins, had no lasting affection for his choice of bride, not understanding her incessant talk of trends and London fashions, as they had been raised in the Hebrides in cable-knit sweaters and wellingtons.

His father had already been hinting, grumbling more like, about not wanting to travel down south for the wedding, whenever that might be. Jeor blamed his hesitation on his general distaste for London but Jorah knew his father better than that. 

At least they were talking again, Jorah conceded to himself, even if they still couldn’t see eye-to-eye on much.

Least of all Lynesse Hightower, who came from a vastly different world than the Mormonts—a world of glitz and society and wealth, Friday night dance parties and Sunday morning brunch buffets with high-end muffins and bottomless mimosas. Lynesse was gorgeous and well-connected and the envy of any woman within a fifty mile radius. Jorah had no idea how he’d landed her in the first place. The right time, the right place, he supposed. 

_She’s using you_ , his father shook his head ruefully last time he went home, but Jorah wouldn’t hear it. He closed his ears to it.

True, Lynesse wasn’t the type to declare her feelings but she accepted his proposal. And he never doubted that she loved him back…

Until he ducked back to the flat between the ceremony and the reception, just to see if she was feeling any better. 

He opened the front door to find Tregar Ormollen standing in his living room.

“Oh, hello?” Jorah managed, caught off guard. Their neighbor was a nice enough fellow—kind of bland and used an excessive amount of brylcreem. But they were on friendly terms, always waving at the mailbox and sharing some beers on their respective front steps a couple times, but Jorah couldn’t remember the last time they had him over. 

And wasn’t he supposed to be on some cruise with his wife in Scandinavia?

“Jorah, how are you?” the man shot out his hand immediately and Jorah took it reflexively. 

But as soon as his hand touched Tregar’s, he knew. Not out of any look on the man’s face—although thinking back there was certainly guilt written in Tregar’s features. No, it was a sudden thing. As if the scales that had been on Jorah’s eyes for the last year or so, suddenly slid off and shattered into a million, tiny pieces at his feet.

The carpooling because they both worked downtown, the evening phone calls that she took in the other room, the reason she kept postponing their wedding date, under the flimsiest of excuses, the caterer she wanted to use was overbooked until February, the florist was on holiday with her mother… 

_God, how could I be such a classic fool?_

And to add insult to injury, he heard Lynesse’s smooth voice call out from the bedroom down the hall, “Hurry up, Treg. I’m naked and I want you at least twice before Jorah gets home.”

Jorah’s already rugged expression hardened into carved stone and when Tregar went to pull his hand back, he found it was locked in an iron vice. The smaller man cringed just a little, letting out a slight whimper, wondering what Jorah might do.

For the span of ten seconds, Jorah wondered that himself, keeping the man’s hand captive in his own, squeezing slightly against the bones of Tregar’s hand, and considering just how much force would be needed to crush Tregar’s fingers. Or punch him square in the face.

He wasn’t worth it. And as for Lynesse…

After releasing Tregar’s hand, Jorah shook his head darkly and walked right back out the front door.

* * *

And now he was here, at the lakeside cottage outside Marseille, where he’d planned to take Lynesse to spend the weeks before Christmas, escaping the hustle and bustle of London for the peace and quiet of a country cottage.

He’d been renting it from Olenna Tyrell for years—it’s where he retreated to work on the first draft of a new novel and just recharge. It was a safe place for him, one he’d found by accident years ago, during his more wayward youth. 

He’d never brought any woman here. Hadn’t even been tempted until he met Lynesse.

 _It’s better you found out now. Better before you married her…_ The rational part of his brain was obnoxious in its practicality. And typically, took on the cadence of his father’s voice.

He knew it was true. But that didn’t make it hurt any less. Still, he was slowly acclimating himself to the idea that maybe he was better off alone. All alone. He had a hermit’s personality anyway. How many times had Lynesse said that, even when they were supposedly happy and crazy in love?

_Look at your face. Who died, Jorah? Try to smile once in a while, why don’t you?_

Well, his smiles, or lack thereof, weren’t her problem anymore. And there was no one at the cottage to complain. Except maybe the ducks.

 _Small favors_ , he thought wryly.

Jorah grabbed his typewriter and his suitcase from the trunk just as another car drove in.


	2. II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I haven't managed to respond to everyone's comments on chapter 1 yet but I will :) This fandom is filled with amazing, generous, wonderful, super creative minds and I heart you all <3
> 
> Tomorrow we can expect a story from Exulted Shores, which I assume will be fantastic because girl's got serious skills. I'll be back Friday with the next installment of this one. Xo

Daenerys Targaryen was fidgeting in the passenger seat of her aunt’s sedan, her hands playing with stray pieces of fringe on her sky-blue scarf, braiding the loose threads together before pulling them all out again. She was a little anxious. She shouldn’t be. 

As she kept reminding herself, there was nothing to be anxious about.

In the driver seat, Olenna Tyrell looked away from the road briefly, cutting a quick glance towards her niece, noticing Daenerys’s restless hands immediately. And the set frown that seemed to have taken up residence on the younger woman’s face. 

“Is it the drive that makes you nervous?” Olenna wondered immediately, choosing the most likely culprit. But Daenerys shook her head. It wasn’t that, although she could understand why Olenna would ask. 

Even after all this time…

* * *

It took two years for her to get in a car again after the accident. 

And when she finally did, she remembers visibly jumping at the sound of the passenger door closing, as if it was a coffin lid shutting tight. It was all she could do not to grab the handle, push the door open and jump out again. 

If she let her thoughts wander that way, she could still bring to mind the smell of gasoline and blood on her clothes, fire licking at the tar and twisted steel scattered over the highway. 

And Viserys and Drogo…

They’d just finished a Christmas festival in Germany and were headed to a show in Prague. Viserys had slurred his way through the last few songs, as Drogo decided to show up early and started feeding her brother shots of vodka with a medley of street drugs that he and Viserys were currently experimenting with.

Daenerys’s heart sank a little when she noticed that Drogo was with her brother backstage. They were talking animatedly, laughing, drinking, casting a couple glances her way. Their friendship had been an unhealthy one from the first. They pretended to be best mates. But Viserys tolerated Drogo for the drugs he brought with him. And Drogo tolerated Viserys to spend time leering at Daenerys. 

She wasn’t blind. She knew what he wanted.

The crowd wasn’t amused that Viserys forgot the words to his mother and father’s most famous songs. And they booed outwardly when he fumbled Rhaegar’s signature song, “Lo, How A Rose E’er Blooming,” their jeers growing louder and louder, until Daenerys jumped in to take on the last verse herself. 

They came to hear _Fire & Blood_, or at least the last two remaining members. They did not come to watch Viserys stumble on stage while Daenerys looked on helplessly. The crowd cleared out after the last song without asking for an encore.

“Ungrateful cunts,” Viserys had spat at the end of the set, as they walked backstage. He grabbed the vodka bottle from Drogo’s outstretched hands roughly and downed the rest of it. Then he mumbled something about moving on as soon as possible, to find someplace where the Targaryen name still garnered a little respect.

Daenerys had begged her brother to wait until morning to drive down, hoping to give both Viserys and Drogo a chance to sober up but Viserys warned her, in no uncertain terms, not to tell him what to do.

“You sing when I tell you to sing, you go where I tell you to go. They’re simple rules, Dany,” he talked down to her as habit, his eyes glassy but his words as sharp as ever. “You may have a voice, sweet sister, but that’s all you have. And without me, you’re nothing. Please remember that.”

When she closed her eyes, she could still see Viserys’s silver hair streaked scarlet and his lifeless eyes staring back at her, his head cradled in her lap on the side of that highway. Drogo’s broken body lying in the ditch a few feet away. Sirens and red flashing lights from emergency vehicles. Sgt. Barristan, the first police officer on the scene, pulling her away from the wreck gently and lifting her up into the ambulance. 

The taupe-colored hallways of the hospital, the beeps of heart monitors and the hum of air conditioners. 

The muffled drone of a doctor letting her know her brother didn’t make it. 

_His injuries were too extensive, Miss Targaryen, and the amount of blood loss…_

Drogo had died at the scene. She knew that without asking. She knew as soon as his screaming stopped.

So she didn’t ask. She didn’t say anything at all. Not then, and not later.

Not a word.

They washed her brother’s blood from her hands. They set her wrist. They bandaged the scrapes and cuts on her face, torn up by broken glass. 

And then they sent her home. To silence. 

* * *

Five years had passed and she still wouldn’t drive herself. 

She depended on Olenna for rides…and Daario, to a lesser extent. At least before he’d jetted off to god knows where, without warning, leaving a scribbled note on her kitchen table: “Be back soon, babe.”

She should have known better than to date a musician. It’s not like she could feign ignorance at the free spirit types. She grew up with them.

But she wasn’t afraid of being in a car anymore, so that was progress. On days like this, when the sky was that deep shade of autumn blue and the trees were changing colors, she even enjoyed it.

Still, some scars hadn’t healed. The ones no one could see. The ones no one could _hear_. And she didn’t enjoy meeting new people. Even before everything that had happened.

“You don’t have to worry about Jorah Mormont,” Olenna seemed to read her thoughts. She continued, with the rich flavor of Parisian French curling around the English words, “He keeps to himself and he’s not one to pry. He’ll leave you to do your work in peace, _ma chèrie_. Of the two of you, I wouldn’t be surprised if _you_ did most of the talking.”

At this, Olenna winked at her niece, at the inside joke between them. Daenerys didn’t crack a smile, her stomach still in knots.

“Oh, pet, don’t be that way,” Olenna chided her affectionately. “You know I love you more for your silence.”

Yes, that was likely true. Olenna had no love lost on fools or chatterboxes, which she always said were one in the same. 

When Tyrion Lannister, Viserys and Daenerys’s manager started calling round a month or two after the accident, blathering on about how the momentum from the last album would only last so long and that they really needed to discuss scheduling some performances before the fans started to forget about _Fire & Blood_ and _Khaleesi_ …Olenna was only too pleased to answer her niece’s buzzing phone and tell the little money-grubber to go fuck himself. 

Daenerys hadn’t spoken in five years. Not once. Not one word. Not one song. Her voice died the same night as her brother and Drogo.

The doctors blamed it on the trauma. Olenna blamed it on Viserys.

_What? Don’t give me that look. The little snake’s dead. I’ll blame whatever I want on him now._

Daenerys didn’t know herself. At first, she tried. When she was alone, in front of the mirror. At the piano, as her fingers brushed over familiar notes. Eventually, she didn’t try anymore. She didn’t try a great many things. 

And whenever she did, it was always a disaster. Look how things turned out with Daario. Those were four months of her life that she’d never get back again.

_Ugh._

She didn’t know why she let her aunt talk her into this. She didn’t really need the money. The royalties from Fire & Blood were dwindling, as her parents had been gone for over two decades, but Rhaegar’s solo work was still a fixture of radio play, especially around the holidays. 

Besides, she lived sparsely. And she was coming dangerously close to becoming a hermit in her Marseille apartment, with only her piano and her ghosts for company.

“It’s very little commitment,” Olenna had promised, selling it to her niece as she sold everything. With good sense and practicality, “Three days a week. Basic housekeeping at the cottage. You’ll hardly have to work. Jorah Mormont is more ghost than man, even on his most sociable days. And if this works out, perhaps you will feel like applying to other jobs again. Getting your feet wet, as they say, _n’est-ce pas_?” 

Daenerys had been in a brave mood that day. She reached for her notepad and wrote “okay” before thinking better of it.

She was thinking better of it now. 

Oh, but maybe it _was_ for the best. Maybe Olenna was right. She was too young to retreat away from life, wasn’t she? 

It was only three days a week. She could manage three days. And she could always quit if it didn’t work out.

As they drove down the cottage’s long driveway, she forced her hands to be still, pulling out the last of the braided fringe from her scarf. She looked out the window instead, distracting herself with the line of hardwoods lining the driveway and their pretty foliage, the best they’d seen in Marseille in a few years as the weather had been cooler than normal, even risking a frost. Soon, she caught sight of the man pulling his bags from the trunk of his car.

He was tall, with weathered features and a set expression that seemed rather grim. She liked that. Daenerys didn’t trust happy people.

His expression lightened a little when he saw them approach, as the grimness wasn’t their doing, of course. He offered Olenna a small wave as she parked the car, recognizing her immediately. Jorah Mormont had been coming to the cottage for twenty years. Olenna had been the landlord of this place for twice that. 

“I learned to swim in these waters, _ma chèrie_ ,” She once told Daenerys, raising her eyebrows with mischief as she added, “Back when the dinosaurs had tea parties and played croquet with the Dauphin of France.”

Daenerys unbuckled her seatbelt and begrudgingly exited the passenger side, her laced boots hitting the gravel with a subtle crunch. She followed Olenna to the front of the cottage, standing back from her aunt, with her hands plunged deep in the pockets of her red wool coat, cold in the brisk autumn weather, and shy in the presence of someone she didn’t know.

“ _Bonjour_ , Olenna,” Jorah greeted and reached out to take her aunt’s hand. 

“ _Bonjour_ , Jorah. Welcome back,” Olenna returned his smile. The smile wasn’t habit for her. There were only certain guests that received her smiles. She asked, “Your lady will be joining us later?”

There was a dark shadow that passed Jorah’s features and a pause before he answered, “Ah, no. Not this time.”

“Oh, am I sad about this?” Olenna wondered slyly, with an all-knowing tone that she used on family and acquaintances alike. It was a grandmother’s tone, and judged much. Daenerys could sympathize, having been on the receiving end of it plenty of times.

“Not surprised, I think,” Jorah replied honestly, but did not elaborate, gently warning the older woman not to pry further.

Olenna took the hint.

“ _Alors_ ,” Olenna turned back to Daenerys, reaching towards her and beckoning her forward with repeated flicks of her wrinkled hands. She introduced them, “This is my niece, Daenerys Targaryen. She’ll be cleaning the cottage for you during your stay.”

“Hello. Or _salut_ , rather,” Jorah caught himself, stumbling over the greeting. His eyes flickered over Daenerys’s face, meeting her gaze and holding it…longer than perhaps he should have. 

Daenerys was used to men giving her long looks. Women, too. Her hair was nearly silver, even though she had yet to turn thirty. It was a genetic anomaly that ran in the Targaryen family. She’d be more surprised if he _didn’t_ gawk a little.

But it wasn’t her hair so much as her eyes that had taken his attention. 

Daenerys didn’t look away, as there was something familiar in his features that made her curious, as if she’d met him before, though she knew she hadn’t. She found herself suddenly comparing the shade of his blue eyes to the autumn sky above. 

They were certainly arresting enough.

Beside her, Olenna was shaking her head and clucking her tongue, “She’s not French. She’s English, like you. But you’ve been in Marseille, what? Three years, Daenerys?”

Daenerys shook her head, briefly holding up five fingers before bringing her hand down again.

“That long already?” Olenna’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, time flies, _non_?”

Jorah was still looking at Daenerys, somewhat intently, and she felt herself shrink under his frank gaze. It wasn’t his fault. He was waiting for her to greet him back. It was a natural assumption. Daenerys looked to Olenna for a rescue, as the silence was now spilling out between them uncomfortably.

But Olenna enjoyed uncomfortable silences and let this one drag on a moment more than necessary. Sometimes, Daenerys wished her aunt would put herself in her shoes. Just once. Just for a little while. And consider what it was like to be young and unsure of herself and terrible with strangers and just…not very good at life. But she knew Olenna loved her and didn’t do it out of spite.

The older woman liked ruffling feathers. It amused her to no end.

In the meantime, Daenerys gave a small smile and barely perceptible nod to the man in front of her, hoping it was enough. 

Jorah’s eyes remained locked with hers for only a moment more. Before he pulled away, he gave a small smile back, seeming to understand—though, how could he? He lowered his gaze to his shoes and then over to Olenna. Daenerys had the oddest impulse to catch his gaze again and bring it back to hers. 

But his attention was on her aunt now, as she was speaking again.

Olenna explained, finally, “My niece doesn’t speak, Monsieur,” she stated flatly. “No, she’s not deaf. But I’ll let her tell you more…if she wishes.”

Daenerys gave her aunt a glare. _How do you expect me to tell him anything?_ Olenna ignored the glare. She was used to far worse. 

In retirement, Olenna sat on the board of directors for the university at Aix-Marseille, two hospital boards and an art gallery, not to mention being mother to a buffoonish son, who took after his buffoonish father in far too many ways, and grandmother to a gaggle of Tyrells who (and she would say this out of absolute love and affection) were about as useful as a bouquet of golden roses. 

_Pretty is as pretty does._ She would say and then give a long sigh. _And pretty doesn’t do much…_

“Can you give her a ride home at the end of the day?” Olenna asked Jorah, but her tone left little room for him to refuse. She explained, “I’m afraid my meetings in the city will run into the evening and I’d rather not leave Daenerys stranded here waiting for me.”

“Yes, of course,” Jorah answered immediately, looking to Daenerys briefly again, gauging her preference. She wondered if she appeared hesitant to him, for he made a point to assure her, in the softest of tones, “It’s no trouble.”

She barely heard him, distracted by his eyes again.

“ _Bon_ ,” Olenna said, looking between them with another smile plastered on her face, clapping her hands together, as if in victory of something. “Well, it’s all settled then. And time is money, I’m afraid. Enjoy the cottage, _Monsieur_. Don’t talk the man’s ear off, Daenerys. _Ciao, mes enfants_.”


	3. III

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, I'm back :) But if you haven't read ExultedShores fantastic story from yesterday, make sure to go do that. You won't regret it, it'll make you cry happy tears :)
> 
> Also special shout out to FirstDraft for letting me run a few French phrases by her to make sure Olenna doesn't side-eye me later for messing up her lines haha. Merci beaucoup, darling! <3 <3 <3

Jorah wasn’t sure what to think of Olenna Tyrell’s niece. 

He probably shouldn’t be thinking of her at all. But there was something in her eyes, there when they met in the driveway and later as he passed her in the cottage entryway briefly—she had an old sadness hovering in her features that she couldn’t hide and, for whatever reason, it was drawing his attention.

_All_ of his attention. 

The cottage was small—Olenna Tyrell marketed it to her tenants as “cozy”—with a large front room that faced the lake, flanked by the sole bedroom and bath on one side and small but well-stocked kitchen on the other. The living space was open and airy, with lots of light coming in by the almost uninterrupted line of windows facing the lakeside. But it was sparsely furnished, with a sofa, a few chairs, cabinets, the desk on which Jorah set up his typewriter and an upright piano pushed against the inside wall. 

The bedroom and kitchen were likewise lean on amenities but still _cozy_ , as Olenna was so fond of writing in her advertisements.

But there was really no way of getting away from oneself, and certainly not a second person, no matter how quiet they were.

So as Jorah stared at the current page of his manuscript, he attempted to focus and made an effort to keep his eyes on the white, blank page when he heard Daenerys’s soft footsteps enter the room. He didn’t want to make her feel uncomfortable and staring at her would likely not be the best way to accomplish that.

As she set a cup of tea beside him, he risked a glance and found her focused on the tea cup, intent on not spilling the hot liquid all over his paperwork. 

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. Her hands seemed to slide from that steaming mug almost reluctantly, sliding further back into the long sleeves of her cardigan. She was still wearing that blue scarf and he thought he saw her shiver. 

“Is it too cold in here?” he wondered, belatedly realizing that he hadn’t asked her if she wanted the pellet stove turned on. He was used to the chill in London this time of year so the Marseille autumn felt relatively warm to him. “We can turn on the heat if you’re cold…?”

He made as if to rise but she shook her head, pulling her notepad and a little stub of a pencil from the pocket of her sweater. She scribbled quickly and handed the pad over.

_I’m always cold. Even in July._

“Aye,” he answered, not surprised. She was a little slip of a thing and when he took her hand in the driveway, he had noticed her skin was much cooler than his. He also noticed how easily his large hand swallowed up her small one. And how a strand of her pretty, silver-blonde hair fell into her face as she gave him that first, faint smile. 

He probably shouldn’t be noticing things like that. 

She was at least fifteen years younger than him and she was just being polite. Besides, he had just met her. Is this what the poets talked about with their sonnets and the French with their _le coup de foudre_? Love at first sight. He almost laughed at himself as the idea was so foreign and so unlikely and so…ridiculous. He’d come here to hide away, he’d just had his heart stomped on, shredded and returned to his keeping by Lynesse Hightower. 

And again, he _just_ met this woman. He knew nothing about her.

_Except that she’s cold_ , he amended. Well, he could fix that, at least.

So he handed her back the notepad as he stood up from the desk. He towered over her while they were standing side-by-side like this. She looked up at him, curiously, and he wondered if she was guessing his thoughts. 

Thoughts that made his ears go red. 

He ducked his head before she could see, wondering when he’d become so terrible at hiding his own feelings. He walked over to the pellet stove and turned on the heat. If it got too warm for him, he could always go write in the gazebo down by the lake.

_That might be for the best anyway_ , he thought. For when he looked back at her, Daenerys granted him a second smile. It was small like the first one, but warm and sweet, nonetheless. He tried not to linger in that smile and forced himself to look down at his feet instead, nodding briefly to let her know it was nothing. It was such a simple thing but that little smile made him feel like a knight granting his princess a favor.

It was an inappropriate feeling, to say the least. And he would ignore it. 

_Oh, you will ignore it…_

But as he heard her footsteps receding from the room, he couldn’t help but let his gaze wander up again, his eyes following her closely as she walked back to the kitchen.

* * *

“Is this the exit?” Jorah wondered, as they drove into the city. He had already turned on his blinker but looked to her for confirmation.

Daenerys nodded, a little surprised he knew Marseille so well. Olenna had mentioned something about him spending most of his twenties in Southern Europe, to put some distance between himself and his father, so maybe these were all old stomping grounds for him? She wouldn’t know.

But she found herself wondering what he was like when he was younger. Was he impulsive and reckless? Was he quiet and serious? And then she chided herself for wondering anything about him at all.

The day had gone better than she expected. It was nice to spend some time at the cottage. She’d forgotten how peaceful it was out there, with just the sound of the breeze rustling through the tree limbs and the ducks on the lake. Jorah was easy to clean up after. Olenna had been right about that. He was quiet, very quiet, doing his own thing, leaving her to her work and speaking to her maybe twice all day.

Part of her wondered if he didn’t like her there. He seemed to avoid her gaze at times and later, in the afternoon, he’d gone down to write near the dock for a while. But when he came back up to the cottage, they happened to pass each other in the hall and he had smiled, just as warmly as in the driveway when they first met.

“Do you want anything to eat?” he had asked. “I’m going to make a sandwich. Ham and cheese?” 

Her stomach chose that particular moment to growl so she had no choice but to nod her assent. And afterwards, they ate together at the kitchen table, in comfortable silence, before he drove her home for the day.

When she got in his car, she was worried she would feel like jumping out again. She braced herself for those same feelings of sudden dread and fear but then…

“Don’t forget your scarf,” Jorah was getting in on the other side. He handed her the blue length of fabric across the divide between them. She’d taken it off earlier, after he’d started the stove for her and she began to feel warm, _truly_ warm, for the first time in a long time. 

Now, in the car, she took the scarf from his hands and found herself looking into eyes of nearly the same color. It was enough to make her forget…many things. 

He fiddled with the radio on the freeway, finding an English station that played soft rock and folk songs. Daenerys knew most of them by heart. The fingers on her right hand moved a little in her lap, over phantom notes that she could play in her sleep. Her parents had taught her how to play piano before she learned to talk. 

Guitar, mandolin, fiddle, any instrument that was in the house, really. Viserys too, though he didn’t put in the hours she did, always leaning on his natural talent instead of practice.

_If I put in half the hours you did, little sister, the crowd would forget all about “Khaleesi.”_

But he never did. And towards the end, she was eclipsing her brother’s talent to the point that Tyrion had started floating the idea of cutting the duo down to a single act.

“Dany will never sing without me,” her brother had declared with _such_ confidence, answering for both of them. 

She hated that his words had proven true. But she didn’t want to think about her brother so she pushed the thought out of her head almost as quickly as it entered.

She focused on other things. The fall foliage, the first stars twinkling out of the crisp night sky, blinking out from the side mirrors. Jorah’s hand as it slid over the leather steering wheel, turning onto the exit smoothly. 

The ride was a quiet one, just as the day had been. But here in the cabin of the vehicle, with only a few inches between each other, it was harder to ignore the silence. Even for a woman who couldn’t talk and a man who preferred not to.

Jorah attempted to fill it up a couple times but eventually found himself rambling about the mountains in the distance, the low ridges of Garlaban, and decided, “No, right. Silence is golden…as the Tremeloes said. Clever guys. Although I think the original version was by uh, Frankie Valli and the Four Seasons. Not my favorite band…or song, for that matter, but…”

Impulsively, he started humming the melody and Daenerys found herself grinning at the sound. He had a fine voice but sounded a little nervous. And the notes didn’t hold up under his nerves.

“Oh, shut up,” he told himself after a few seconds and her grin only went wider, suppressing an honest-to-goodness laugh. He saw her grin and responded with a guileless one of his own, knowing how ridiculous he’d sounded. 

She hadn’t laughed in such a long time. She wasn’t sure if she could manage it and was too afraid to try, though she grinned until her cheeks hurt. 

She wondered if Jorah laughed and what his laugh would sound like. And with that thought, she finally sobered, wondering again why her thoughts were drifting that way. And so quickly.

This was a part-time job and Jorah Mormont was one of Olenna’s tenants. Besides, she had no interest in…God, where was her mind going? She _just_ met the man.

_Seriously, Daenerys. Get it together…_

They both took comfort in the extended silence that followed, which lasted until he dropped her off at her apartment.


	4. IV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys are making me blush with the response on this fic :) Much thanks to all Xo
> 
> And Sanziene, this _is_ the chapter you were looking for ;)

They eased into a routine quickly—Olenna dropped her off in the morning, Jorah drove her back into the city in the evening. 

Jorah wrote while Daenerys dusted, washed dishes and went through the cupboards in the kitchen, checking expiration dates on dry goods. Olenna had asked her to tackle the crawlspace above the back room if she had time as well. There were boxes and boxes of old Tyrell and Targaryen family memorabilia up there that needed to be sifted through and either kept or thrown out.

_How will I know what to keep?_ Daenerys had written on her notepad. Her aunt shrugged.

“I leave it to your discretion. If I do it myself, I’ll throw out everything,” Olenna admitted, never one for sentimentality. 

Daenerys muddled through the task, making a number of judgment calls on old documents that she hoped were correct. She found herself lingering over a shoebox full of photographs. She didn’t know most of the people in them but names had been scribbled on the backs of some— _the Dayne sisters, Bryden Tulley, Oberon Martell and Ellaria Sand_. There was one of her mother and father at the lake side, her father with a cigarette in his mouth and guitar in his hands, her mother stretching up to kiss her father’s cheek.

She slipped the picture of her parents into her sweater pocket. Olenna wouldn’t mind if she kept that one. She pushed the shoebox back where she found it and crawled back down onto the sturdy step ladder below.

After lunch, it had become habit for Jorah to move down to the gazebo to write, so long as it wasn’t raining. Daenerys would take him down a cup of tea around mid-afternoon, as she always made herself a pot and just instinctively decided that maybe he’d like one too. He seemed to appreciate the gesture and always gave her a brief smile in return.

She was beginning to crave his smiles. Perhaps a little too much. 

He was so dour most of the time, serious and set on his work, that she found herself fascinated by the way a smile transformed his otherwise somber features. It was a revelation, honestly. Every single time. And she was…confused by why it warmed her heart to see the man smile. Why should she care if he smiled or not?

_And why should I wonder how it might be to hear his laugh?_

After she took Jorah his tea, she usually returned to the cottage to finish whatever household chores were left. But as Olenna had promised, Jorah was an easy tenant. So on those days when her work was complete, she would pull out the bench at the upright piano and play a little, avoiding the higher octave, which was woefully out of tune. 

She chose slow ballads and played softly enough that she doubted Jorah could hear the music down at the lake. She didn’t want to disturb him. 

_Lo, how a rose e’er blooming, from tender stem has sprung…_

Her fingers sunk into the keys. There was relief in feeling her fingertips slide over their smooth, cool faces and hearing the familiar notes sing out on command. If only her vocal cords were as compliant. In her head, she could hear her voice humming along with the melody. 

_From Jesse’s lineage coming, as men of old have sung…_

It was almost enough. She closed her eyes on the music and let her fingers speak for her.

But on one of those afternoons, she opened her eyes and instantly felt another’s eyes upon her. She slowed her fingers, coming to rest on a soft major chord as she turned on the bench slightly, finding Jorah leaning against the door frame to the lakeside entrance, with his arms crossed over his broad chest.

He wasn’t smiling. His brow was furrowed. And she immediately worried that the furrow was from anger or annoyance at the noise. She brought her hands back from the piano quickly, assuming that she’d been playing too loudly and that she’d disturbed him.

She reached for her notepad. While balancing it on the music shelf, she wrote: _Sorry. I’ll stop._

He pushed himself off the door frame and bridged the distance between them in a relaxed manner, coming to the corner of the piano and turning the notepad his way to read what she’d written. He shook his head at the message, his features going soft, the furrow in his brow lifting, realizing that she’d misinterpreted his stance in the doorway. 

He seemed ready to speak, opening his mouth once before closing it again, deciding against whatever words were primed on his tongue. Unwilling to break the silence, he hesitantly asked for her pencil instead, holding out his hand tentatively, his palm raised to her.

With her violet eyes widening just slightly, she gave him the pencil. 

Below her apology, she watched him write out his reply in a firm, slanted hand: 

_Don’t ever be sorry and don’t ever stop. You play beautifully._

She smiled at the compliment, ducking her head slightly and looking away in an attempt to hide the blush that came too easily to her features. She hadn’t been prepared…she hadn’t considered…

The blush didn’t come from the compliment, though it was kind of him to say. And she was certainly happy he enjoyed her playing. But no, it was rather a very small, seemingly innocuous thing. He wouldn’t have realized the gravity of it, nor she…at least not until that very moment.

Except for her, Jorah Mormont was the first person to ever write anything on that notepad. 

And somehow, she felt like it mattered.

* * *

It mattered. Of course, it mattered.

But Jorah was blind to Daenerys’s growing feelings. And he wouldn’t have believed them, even if he recognized them for what they were. Even if she wrote them out in plain, black letters:

_When I’m near you, I feel like there’s something more in this world than the lonely sound of my own thoughts…_

He scarcely believed his own feelings. Certainly not the strength and depth of them, which seemed to grow daily, despite his attempts to bury them deeply, by throwing himself into the new book. It was the strangest thing…

That cup of tea she brought him—whether in the house or down by the dock, wherever he happened to be working. Jorah had never asked for it and she certainly didn’t have to make him anything but there was something so domestic about it that he found himself looking forward to those few minutes of the day more than all the rest put together.

_Oh, Jorah, don’t admit things like that. It makes you incredibly pathetic…_ Lynesse’s voice was in his head immediately, speaking words she likely said outright to him once upon a time. And those were far from the cruelest words in her arsenal. 

God, when he considered the years he wasted with Lynesse…

But despite the choice of voice, the words were right. He was pathetic. And wholly distracted. Enchanted, certainly. But distracted. How else could he describe it? But Daenerys was so…

_No, none of that._

He may be pathetic but he was no fool. And so he attempted to suppress whatever nonsense was cluttering up his head and his heart every time he looked at Daenerys Targaryen and made up his mind to get through the next few weeks without letting her know that he was…

That he was what? Falling for her? A girl he met three weeks ago?

He grumbled a little to himself as he typed the next line on his manuscript: _Jack Taylor reluctantly agreed to investigate the university student’s mysterious death…but he couldn’t get her silver hair or her sweet smile out of his head…_

Jorah heard footsteps on the gazebo steps behind him so he quickly snatched the page from the typewriter, placing it face down on the other completed pages, all held down by an empty coffee mug, used as a makeshift paperweight.

Daenerys approached with an apologetic smile, as was her habit, concerned she was interrupting his work. That timidity seemed deeply ingrained. He briefly wondered if that was her brother’s doing and felt some visceral rage at the silver-haired golden boy that he would never meet, as the boy had been dead for over five years. 

He’d put it together, eventually. 

Who she was, who her parents were. The catalog of _Fire & Blood_ was a mainstay of his youth when the older Targaryens were still alive and touring around Europe. He hadn’t been as invested in Rhaegar’s work, as it always struck him as a little too commercial. Except that German hymn that he used to sing.

The one Daenerys had been playing at the piano so often.

He had no idea how he hadn’t realized who she was sooner. _Blind, pathetic, fool._ But his blood boiled to think that Viserys Targaryen may have instilled such feelings of inadequacy in his younger sister—a girl who, if he remembered correctly, was the more talented of the younger Targaryens, by far.

In any case, her timidity and concern were both misplaced. She should never worry about interrupting him, as he craved her interruptions like a starving man craved bread—it was a lost cause at this point. He was surprised that the look on his face didn’t give him away. 

But this morning, Jorah had decided that he would get himself together. He was forty-four years old, he should be able to control his emotions a little better than this.

Which is why he decided to write down at the gazebo this afternoon, even though the day had turned more than _mildly_ breezy and the thick, ash-colored clouds above were promising to split open at any minute.

As she stood at his right side, with that heavy breeze teasing at the long strands of her silver hair and that generous smile still lingering over her full lips, he gave only a polite nod and busied himself with feeding a blank piece of paper into the typewriter roll, while silently reminding himself that a young, beautiful, talented woman like Daenerys was far out of his league.

And likely had a boyfriend that she went home to every night.

_But then why wouldn’t the boyfriend come and pick her up?_ he considered, before telling himself to do the world a favor and shut the hell up.

* * *

For her part, Daenerys certainly thought he seemed distracted when she came down to the gazebo that afternoon. But she misread the reason for it.

Even on short acquaintance, she could tell that this was his natural state, preoccupied and a little brooding. But she didn’t mind. She liked how quiet he was and how he didn’t…well, there was a list. A _long_ list. Her experience with men wasn’t great. Too many of the men in her life had known her as Daenerys Targaryen, youngest daughter of Aerys and Rhaella, younger sister of Rhaegar and Viserys. 

Or worse, they knew her as _Khaleesi_ , Viserys’s creation, the stage name he’d saddled her with, the fans he fed her to, like Drogo, as some sort of public property that they could touch, kiss and proposition at their pleasure.

But Jorah didn’t know her as _Khaleesi_. Or if he did, he hadn’t mentioned it. He knew her only as Daenerys, the woman who cleaned for him three times a week. And he was kind and respectful and just…not like other men that she’d known. 

And she found herself looking forward to the days she came to the cottage. Especially these few moments when she brought him tea, or shared a ham and cheese sandwich at the end of the day or looked up to find him listening to her play piano in the front room.

_You play beautifully._

He made her feel calm. He made her feel safe. Even in silence. 

So many people tried to drag her out of her silence, some with good intentions, like her aunt. Some with _other_ intentions. And saleable tickets ready to go, in Tyrion Lannister’s case. They all assumed she would recover her voice at some point and the sooner the better, honestly. Tyrion, in particular, would get down on his stubby hands and knees and beg every deity that existed if he thought there was any chance that would bring her voice back. 

But Jorah didn’t try to drag her out of silence. He met her there, he joined her in it. And though they had only known each other a few weeks, she had the distinct feeling that he would never say a word about it. Not even if she never spoke or sang again.

It was almost laughable. She’d known him three weeks. He was so not her type and yet, she found herself getting butterflies in his presence and wondering what on Earth had come over her.

But she made sure not to give herself away. At least out here by the dock, she could blame the wind for her rosy cheeks. With admirable focus, she set the tea cup down near his hand on a bare spot of the gazebo’s oak table, before clearing the empty coffee mug that he’d set aside earlier. 

“Oh!” The small sound escaped her lips unexpectedly. 

Wait, was it her? It couldn’t have been, could it? Or did he say it? There was no time to figure it out, as the act of lifting that coffee mug from the stack of papers beside him had coincided with a blast of breeze from the north side, scattering all those type-written pages to the four winds. 

North, south, east and west. They flew off in a rush and whirlwind, fluttering like white leaves down the dock to the water, where the ducks quacked in protest, paddling out of the path of those errant pages.

Jorah and Daenerys exchanged a glance of horror, catching the pages that still remained with fast grabs and then watching, aghast, as the rest of Jorah’s book flew off, intent on drowning its pages in the lake. Without thinking, Daenerys ran out of the gazebo and down the dock to retrieve them.

“No, leave them, Daenerys!” Jorah called after her, before muttering, “God, it’s half the book…”

But Daenerys wasn’t listening to him, having discarded her outer sweater on the dock and now…

Jorah watched, stunned into silence, as she stripped off the light cotton dress that she wore beneath, her arms coming over her head and dropping the lavender dress beside her on the planks. Jorah tried to look away but found he couldn’t, taking in the sight of her in nothing but her underclothes. 

Time slowed, he would swear it. And he saw nothing but her smooth, pale skin, the gentle curves of her body, the straps of her white lace bra over her shoulders, her slim waist and the delicate shading of a thin dragon tattoo, its wings unfurled and scrolling serpentine along the small of her back.

Daenerys dove into the water, slicing the surface gracefully. The raft of ducks flew off, with a rush of brown feathers skimming the water.

“God _damn_ it, Daenerys,” Jorah breathed to himself. The sound of Daenerys’s body splashing into the water roused him, finally. Time started again. He went after her, peeling off his own cable-knit sweater and shaking off his boots as he rushed down the dock, not so much diving in as tumbling in, having lost his balance halfway down the dock, his mind too distracted to pay attention to an uneven rise on the decking.

The water was cold! 

So cold he swore again when he came up for air. But he was glad for the cold, blessed it even, as it quickly chased away certain other thoughts from his head that had rushed there as soon as Daenerys took off her dress. 

_No, the cold is good_ , he decided, knowing himself too well.

Together, they gathered the drenched pages, the better part of half of them anyway, before Jorah finally convinced her that it wasn’t bloody Shakespeare and that he wasn’t working to deadline and honestly, it was his own fault for not making copies. 

“And I wrote the whole thing on a typewriter. Who does that?” he mentioned to her in a self-deprecating manner, which Daenerys grinned at, through lips that were trembling from the cold water. 

Jorah and Daenerys continued treading water for a while, reaching out for the sad pages, ink bleeding, paper losing all its integrity. Their efforts became more and more half-hearted until, by chance, they both reached for the same page at the same moment and ended up ripping the soaked thing in half. 

Daenerys gasped and, with wide, plaintive eyes, seemed to be apologizing again, profusely. But Jorah was giddy from the cold and the lingering sight of Daenerys swimming half-naked in the lake. With him. Apologizing. To him. It was all so absurd. 

_You would never have to apologize to me. Not in this life. Not in any other._

He laughed suddenly, in a booming voice that rumbled from his chest, echoing far across the expanse of the lake, the small bays and rocky islands further out, where the skittish ducks had decided to spend the remains of the day.

And, as Jorah laughed, Daenerys couldn’t help but give him another one of her pretty smiles.


	5. V

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You'll like what happens in the first 2/3rds of this chapter. You won't like what happens in the last bit.
> 
> But only 24 hours until the next chapter update so... ;)

This time, it was Jorah who fetched them tea. 

Two steaming cups. He set one beside Daenerys, who was sitting at one end of the sofa, wrapped in the warm folds of his plaid bathrobe, with her knees folded up beneath her. She swam in that bathrobe. It was at least three sizes too big, but she was shivering when they got back up to the cottage and needed something to wear while she dried off. 

Jorah dug through his sparse wardrobe and found the bathrobe for her before he went back into the bedroom to change into a pair of jeans and one of his blue button-down shirts. In his haste, he neglected to do up the top few buttons. He ran a hand through his damp hair, shaking it out. Then he gathered up the drenched clothes and threw them all in the dryer before putting on the kettle. 

Watching him move around the cottage, Daenerys half-stood, rising from the sofa, as he was doing her job, but he waved her down immediately. 

She had jumped into the lake to save his manuscript. The least he could do was make her a warm drink.

He kept the other mug for himself as he slid into the chair across from her. Her hands emerged from the sleeves of his bathrobe to retrieve the mug from the end table between them. She curled her fingers around the cup, soaking in the warmth of the ceramic as she took a sip, her eyes lighting up on an unexpected taste. 

It wasn’t tea.

He smirked, glad to have surprised her. He confirmed, softly, “Hot chocolate.”

Daenerys answered his smirk with one of her own, pleased with the choice. It was the time of year for it. Christmas was only a few more weeks away. The music on the radio was holiday-heavy now and, if she wished, she could hear her brother Rhaegar singing as many times a day as she liked. 

_It came a flower bright—_

She could hear herself singing the familiar verses too, her much younger voice mixing with Rhaegar’s. She had very few memories of her older brother, as he passed away when she was still only a child, only a couple years after her mother and father. And then it was just her and Viserys for so long…

The sounds of twisted steel and ambulance sirens threatened to mix with the pretty words of the song. She ignored those sounds admirably and distracted herself by turning her focus elsewhere.

She scribbled on her note pad and handed it to Jorah.

_What’s your book about?_

“Ah, it’s a crime novel,” he answered, shrugging modestly.

She found it endearing—the way his eyes dropped when he was nervous or bashful. She had a sudden image of a little boy with tousled hair who looked just like him doing the same and wondered why that image made her heart flip over itself.

He continued, explaining, “Nothing fancy. A burned-out cop and vigilante justice, that sort of thing. It’s a series I’ve been writing for a while and it sells fairly well. Enough to pay the bills anyway.”

Lynesse would have argued with that, as her bills always ate up his advances quite quickly.

Daenerys scribbled again. _How long will it take to rewrite it?_ She looked at the wet, dripping pieces of damp paper draped over every dry surface in the cottage. Some were salvageable but others…not so much.

“It doesn’t matter,” Jorah assured her. “Like I said, it’s not Shakespeare. I’m a journeyman writer. Besides, I felt like there was something missing in that draft anyway.”

_Like what?_

“A love interest…maybe,” Jorah was being too honest. He felt heat at the tips of his ears again, so he quickly amended, “It’s not something my readers would expect but—” he paused briefly, before confessing to her, “I don’t know, I feel like my protagonist could use something in his life besides his gun and a whiskey bottle.”

A mischievous smile hinted at Daenerys’s lips as she wrote: _Feel free to name her after me._

He grinned, “I could probably do that.”

Were they flirting? Surely not.

He sobered a little, suddenly too curious not to ask, and yet…he wasn’t sure if he should breathe life into those words. He looked at her for a long moment, searching her eyes, tapping his first finger lightly against the table between them. He compromised, gently reaching out to borrow her pencil again. She gave it to him without argument, leaning over to his side of the end table to read the words he wrote.

_Daenerys, I wonder…you used to sing, didn’t you? Your parents—I recognize the last name._

The smile disappeared from her face and he almost wished he could snatch the words back. A shadow passed over her features, which unsettled him deeply. The last thing he wanted to do was cause her pain. He was tempted to rip off the note and crumple it in his hand. He nearly did. 

But she was nodding, slipping the pencil from his fingers and writing those two words: _Fire & Blood._

The name of the band had proved prophetic. In the worst way possible. Aerys and Rhaella lost in a plane crash over Scotland, Rhaegar to an accidental overdose, Viserys to a car accident.

But Daenerys lived… _Khaleesi_. That was her stage name, wasn’t it? A pretty name. A song in three syllables. He wondered if she liked it.

“I didn’t mean to bring it up,” he apologized softly, realizing that the memories were likely still raw. That sort of pain didn’t really heal, just scabbed over, too easy to rip off. 

She was scribbling again and handed the notepad directly into his hands, so he knew she was all right. Her fingers brushed his as the notepad was exchanged. 

_It’s okay. I have good memories mixed with the bad._

He nodded, understatedly, his own years tempered by some of each as well. 

There was a moment of silence before he took the pencil back. He wrote: _Do you miss it?_ before handing the pencil back to her.

_Sometimes_ , she answered.

They traded again.

_I suppose there’s music everywhere._

She smiled again, warmly. She didn’t write down what she was thinking because she didn’t want him to think she was being too forward, but the thoughts sprung to mind nonetheless. 

_Yes_ , she agreed silently, her hands soaking in the warmth of that mug of hot chocolate that he’d brought her. _The sound of the wind rustling autumn leaves, or a flock of ducks landing on the water. The sound of your fingers typing, the sound of your footsteps crossing the floorboards._

Jorah said no more, content enough in her company. Words were superfluous things, anyway. They raised their mugs in near perfect unison, which elicited another smile from her and a rumbling chuckle from him.

_The sound of your laughter_ …she mentally added to her list.

* * *

Another week passed and then another. Daenerys felt like there was a countdown happening but to what end, she couldn’t exactly say. She just knew that in less than a week, no more, Jorah Mormont would be heading back to London.

Five days. Five short days and there would be no more of this. No more quiet days at the cottage. No more typewriter noise in the morning and soft piano music in the afternoon. No more teacups to wash. No more of his handwriting alternating with hers in her notepad.

She wasn’t sure she could stand it.

When he parked outside her apartment that evening, she didn’t reach for the door handle immediately. It was a small pause, but an important one. She waited, wondering why she was hesitating. She slowly looked away from the door, to him, to find his blue eyes asking the same thing. His brow was furrowed and his expression slightly perplexed. 

His handsome face. She wanted to run her fingers down the sides of his face, along the weathered lines and those sharp cheekbones. But her hands wouldn’t move, unable to make the decision for themselves.

In five days, he would be headed back to London and she would have to start submitting resumes or deal with Olenna’s renewed nagging. The job-hunting didn’t bother her, but the idea of his absence did. She wondered why she suddenly felt wistful. As if regretting a chance that wasn’t quite gone yet. She didn’t understand her own feelings. She wondered why she suddenly wanted this moment in time to extend…indefinitely.

And she wondered why she was suddenly and irrevocably tempted to lean over and kiss Jorah Mormont.

“Is everything all right?” Jorah asked gently, likely wondering why she hadn’t moved from her seat yet. But he must feel it too? Sometimes she swore he knew what she was thinking. Like earlier today, when she’d been at the piano.

His soft voice had drifted into the front room from the kitchen, as he made those same sandwiches that had become as much habit as the tea in the afternoon and the drives home. As he retrieved the bread from the cupboard, he was singing, very softly, but with a deep, honey-smooth voice that rivaled some of those she’d heard on the live circuit as a girl.

“Amid the cold of winter, when half spent was the night…”

She didn’t stop playing, because she knew if she stopped, he’d stop singing. He didn’t know she could hear him. And it gave her pause. For the only voices she usually heard sing this song were either dead or gone, locked in her head, perhaps forever.

But Jorah was not dead. Jorah was not gone. He was no ghost. He was alive, flesh and blood, and physically just across the cottage. Should she ask him, he would come to her. Should she stop playing, he would come out of the kitchen and ask her if anything was wrong.

She hadn’t had anyone to just _be_ with in a really long time. 

And in his car, she suddenly didn’t like the idea of leaving his presence. Is everything all right? He had asked. She shook her head slowly, wishing she could read his thoughts. Wishing she knew for sure if…

“Daenerys!” an unexpected voice outside the car window made her jump. She turned quickly, recognizing the brown-haired man standing on the sidewalk immediately. 

_Daario Naharis_ …his name filled her head like a weary sigh. 

His smile was broad and energetic and _loud_ , just like him. He shattered the moment, whatever it might have been, and she found herself struggling to adjust to his sudden, completely unexpected appearance. She hesitated to do more than smile, somewhat tersely, but Jorah was lowering the passenger side window, thinking he was being helpful.

“Babe, I’ve been here since noon,” Daario leaned in and stole a kiss from her lips quickly, before she had time to react…or pull back. “Where have you been?”—he peered over at the other side of the vehicle and asked—“And who’s this?”

“Jorah Mormont,” Jorah reached over Daenerys, extending his hand. 

Daario took it, his crooked grin shifting by a couple degrees as he gave Jorah his own name, in that vain way that always implied, “I’m sure you’ve heard of me?” even though no one outside of the Marseille music scene would have a clue.

Daenerys could feel a sparking tension in those clasped hands, as the men on either side of her sized each other up. 

Daario had the advantage of standing, bracing his hands on the passenger side door, giving off an air of dominance by the way he held his posture. Jorah didn’t seem impressed, but he offered, “I’m staying at Olenna Tyrell’s cottage for a few weeks.”

“Ah,” Daario replied, also unimpressed. “And giving the help a ride home, hmm? Well, that’s gallant of you… _sir_.”

The word gallant fell off of Daario’s lips too facetiously. And the emphasis on the title “sir” was meant to signify Jorah’s age. Daenerys could tell. The implication was clear. Daario was marking his territory. Daenerys bristled, for a host of different reasons.

With the most pressing being that she hadn’t seen Daario in six months, not since he left that scribbled note on her kitchen table.

_Be back soon babe._

And here he was, back from wherever, giving the impression that everything was as it was before. But it wasn’t…was it? 

She reached for her notepad but Daario had already opened the door and was waiting for her to get out. He held out his hand and if she waited any longer to take it, he would certainly take offense. Daario was a vain, proud man. He didn’t like to look like a fool.

Daenerys cast a lingering, parting glance towards Jorah, hoping her eyes explained enough, before taking Daario’s offered hand and exiting the vehicle reluctantly. For the first time in five years, she found herself wanting to jump back _in_ a car. She forced her feet to remain on the concrete sidewalk.

“Thanks, man, for giving her a ride home,” Daario mentioned. “And don’t worry. I’ll come pick her up from now on.”

“If that’s what Daenerys wants,” Jorah said evenly, taking Daario’s words with heavy grains of salt and looking to _her_ for confirmation.

She didn’t want an altercation here, on the sidewalk. If she said no, Daario would argue, passing it off as some joke. He’d twist her words as he always did, cleverly, with speed, answering for her. And if she was brave enough and forced the break up to happen here…

For whatever reason, she didn’t want Jorah to see it happen. She was worried he might judge her choice in men. And maybe her, because of it.

So she just gave a brisk nod, although she couldn’t erase the frown hovering on her lips.

Her eyes met Jorah’s again and briefly, she wondered if he was going to repeat the question. _Are you sure, Daenerys?_ But Daario spoke up first.

“Have a good night,” he said, shutting the passenger door and waving Jorah away with a raised hand and a smile as fake as the faintly American accent he sometimes used on the French girls at dance clubs downtown.

And Daenerys couldn’t say anything. Not a _damn_ thing. She stood there, helpless. It all happened so fast and she should have grabbed her notepad, she should have pressed the words against the page.

_I want you to stay…_

But she didn’t and Jorah must have felt like he was intruding. He gave her a weighty look, saying only, “Goodnight, Daenerys.”

And then he drove away.


	6. VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm behind on replies again but will catch up. Xo
> 
> Tomorrow, I'm off for the day...but chryssadirewolf will be filling our Jorleesi-loving hearts with something delightful (and gorgeously aesthetic) I'm sure <3 
> 
> See you Wednesday! :)

Was it all in his head? There was a moment there, when he pulled up to the curb, when she neglected to reach for the door handle…he thought maybe she was…and when their eyes met, her lips parting slightly, her expression going _so_ soft, as if she wanted him to lean over and… 

But maybe it was all in his head?

Oh, of course, it was. There was no question. Why was he thinking otherwise? 

He’d been letting his mind wander to romantic foolishness. Love at first sight, meant to be, souls connecting. It was all _such_ nonsense. And he knew better. God, he was about twenty years past this sort of thing. Clarity returned swiftly, as he drove away from her apartment, leaving her on the sidewalk with that cocky, dark-haired, objectively attractive man-child.

_You were a fool. Always such a classic fool._

Of course, she had a boyfriend. Any woman like her must have dozens of men lining up at her door. Younger men. More attractive men. 

Men like Daario Na—whatever he said his last name was. 

Jorah exhaled on something like a laugh, but it was a bitter, hollow sound this time. So hollow. And as he drove back to the cottage, he just kept shaking his head. He flicked off the radio, suddenly preferring the sound of silence. Craving it. Despite the fact that silence now reminded him of _her_.

When he reached the cottage, he parked but didn’t get out of the car right away. His hands remained perched on the steering wheel, one over the other, lingering at the high noon position. Slowly, he leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against his wrists as he sighed once more, feeling worn out and miserable.

_A classic fool…_

* * *

_What are you doing here?_

Daenerys wrote the words on her notepad as soon as they entered the apartment. She pressed the pencil to the paper hard, leaving indents on the following few pages. Daario looked over at her scribblings, squinting at the cursive letters.

“Your handwriting leaves a lot to be desired, you know,” Daario mentioned casually, breezing around her to walk into the kitchen. He flicked on the overhead light and opened her refrigerator, scanning the contents before finding what he was looking for. He grabbed two lagers with a smarmy, satisfied look on his face. 

He didn’t offer her one of the beers, but set one aside on the countertop as he began opening drawers, looking for a bottle opener.

“No, that’s not going to work,” he muttered, before crossing the room to retrieve the bottle opener from his own bag. 

It was a pewter mermaid, naked from the waist up, her long silver hair somehow not leaving _anything_ to the imagination, with the tooth of the bottle opener built into the mermaid’s fin. Daario had bought it (or stole it?) a long time ago, while vacationing in the Caribbean. She knew the story. There was a parrot involved and some Columbian fishing boat. 

As always, he kissed the mermaid’s pewter face before he cracked the bottle. For luck, he insisted.

Daenerys found his whole pirate-boy-without-a-care persona charming in the beginning. The flashy grin, the way he palmed the tip he just handed to the hotel concierge or the parking valet, with such sly indifference. But it got old quick. Especially now, while he was standing here, in her kitchen, drinking her beer, acting like it was six months ago and nothing had changed.

And the pirate-boy stripped of his charm was far less endearing. He was selfish, plain and simple. A little spoiled and…shorter than she remembered, honestly. And she was tired of it. 

All of it.

She stamped her foot lightly, frustrated by her inability to speak her mind or force him to listen. She immediately hated herself for the gesture. She wasn’t four years old. But oh, he made her see red sometimes. She wanted answers and he knew it.

Despite his feigned ignorance, he _definitely_ knew it.

He put the beer down, raising both hands in mock defeat, knowing that he’d roused that side of her that her more hot-headed, impulsive brothers were always known for. Waking the dragon, or something like that, they used to call it. 

“Look, I’m sorry I didn’t call,” he acknowledged his negligence, but then made excuses, “But it’s not like we could have a heart-to-heart conversation over texts, you know? And I lost my phone in the Adriatic the first week there anyway. C’mon, you know me, I have to do these things or I get stir crazy. It’s just who I am. But I’m back now and that’s all that matters. Don’t you wanna hear about my trip? I met a real-life Peruvian flutist in Croatia of all places. I mean, it was just wild and…”

Daenerys gave him a withering stare. The dragon was _very_ much awake. Daario cut his story short.

“You’re mad, I can tell,” his voice went apologetic, but in that impish way that Daario had perfected around the age of seven or eight. He even smiled, his teeth showing brilliant and white against his beach-browned skin. 

He couldn’t help himself. He was the son of a free-spirited mother and an absent father. He didn’t get much discipline as a child. He would admit it freely. To anyone who asked.

Daenerys used to find that charming too. Charming but a little heartless. Cold even. Daario wasn’t the type to linger in bed or take her arm as they walked into a restaurant. He was too busy chatting with a stranger he met in the parking lot, swapping travel stories or learning how to skateboard over hand railings at one in the morning. 

Somehow, she knew Jorah would never leave her shivering beneath the dripping awning of a restaurant for half an hour while she waited for him to go get the car, only to find out he’d met up with Mero so-and-so from Sydney and “sorry, babe, but I hadn’t seen him in forever and just had to catch up…”

But why was she comparing him to Jorah? Why was she suddenly picturing Jorah roaming around her kitchen at one in the morning, dressed in his plaid bathrobe, making a sandwich, giving her a small, almost-playful grin—but sincere, open, with no cocky bravado cluttering up his warm expression.

_We’re not together anymore_ , Daenerys wrote on the notepad, before handing it over for Daario’s inspection. 

“What? Did you meet someone?” Daario acted as if the idea were laughable, impossible even. She didn’t appreciate his scoffing tone, wondering if he’d always been this smug and condescending with her. Probably. Even his flattery seemed to have a backhand to it. 

_Hey, with hair that color, you don’t have to worry about going grey, right?_ He told her this on their first date.

She remembers thinking it was refreshing—the way he just said whatever he wanted and did whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted. It was something she envied a little, never having that kind of confidence herself. Not when she was younger, back when Viserys made a game of crushing and mashing her confidence into dust, and certainly not since the accident.

But she didn’t find him refreshing anymore. And she didn’t like the way he stood in her kitchen as if he owned the place. He didn’t. He didn’t own anything that belonged to her. 

Including her heart. 

No, her heart was otherwise engaged.

Her thoughts must have been transparent. For Daario seemed to have a dawning realization and the smirk finally fell from his face. He was _far_ less attractive when he was frowning, even more so when his tone took on the cadence of a whine. “Christ, Daenerys. Not the guy staying at Olenna’s cottage? Seriously?”

_We’re just friends_. She wrote. 

And maybe that was true. She didn’t know herself at this point. She was running out of time to find out. Maybe Jorah saw her as nothing more than the woman cleaning the cottage. Maybe it was good that Daario interrupted them when he did…

But either way, Daario wouldn’t be sleeping over that night. 

Daenerys gave him an hour to collect his things and get the hell out of her apartment. For good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bye, Daario. Yes, forever. *wink, kiss face, slams door behind him*
> 
> Okay, so the saddest thing though? One of my ex-boyfriends actually _had_ a naked mermaid bottle opener and used to kiss it for luck >_<


	7. VII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3

“How’s work at the cottage?” Olenna asked her niece, as she unfolded her cloth napkin and laid it in her lap. She looked around the café for the nearest waitress, flicking her finger a few times to signal that the young woman’s presence was required. 

The red-haired waitress sprung to their table. She was young, amiable and ready to please, as Olenna was a regular at the café and had a bit of a reputation. The waitress was an aspiring something-or-other, working part-time in food service so she could buy a one-way ticket to Paris in the spring. 

_Isn’t that always how it goes?_ Olenna was known to mutter, with a small sigh.

The girl was pretty enough to be a model, though her posture could use some work. She was very tall and had miniature grey wolves sewn onto the hem of her white apron. 

“Little Red Riding Hood, _bien sûr_. Did you sew them yourself? _Quelle idée charmante_ ,” Olenna complimented the waitress, before adding, “But can you also manage to bring us our appetizers before the meal this time, my sweet?”

Daenerys gave the red-head a sympathetic glance and a discreet shake of her head, silently telling the girl to take no offense. Olenna was rarely satisfied with the work of anyone, whoever they may be, part-time waitress or head of an internationally traded company—it didn’t matter. Still, the waitress bobbed her head quickly, as if she were giving a curtsy from the eighteenth century, and hurried to bring out the appetizers. 

“The cottage?” Olenna repeated to Daenerys. “You have enjoyed working there, _non_?” 

Daenerys shrugged indiscriminately, not really wanting to talk about it. In the last few days, something had changed. Daario’s appearance had worked some mischief that she hadn’t been able to fix. The day after, Jorah had been distant. Not cruel or clipped but just distant. And today…

He didn’t touch the tea she brought him at noon. When she went back to retrieve it later, the cup was full and the liquid within was cold to the touch. And Jorah was not at his desk in the front room. Nor down at the gazebo by the dock. He had decided to write in the bedroom.

With the door firmly shut.

Daenerys felt as cold as the tea in that faithless cup. And she had to fight back a couple tears that threatened to spill from her eyes as she poured the untouched tea down the kitchen sink and watched it swirl down the drain. She brushed at her dark lashes with the back of her hand. She was being ridiculous and she hated herself for it.

He was just busy. And working. And likely _not_ interested. Like she should be. 

Maybe she made it all up in her head anyway. She’d left a note under the tea cup. He must have seen it, even if he didn’t touch the tea?

_Daario isn’t my boyfriend._

It was a simple note but an important one. She wanted to be very clear. She wanted him to know. She _hoped_ he’d want to know as well. But if he saw it, why didn’t he say something?

Or worse, what if he _did_ see it? But didn’t feel the same way so ignored it, hoping to spare her feelings, giving her space as she nursed an unhealthy, unreciprocated crush. Either way, he appeared ready to muddle through the last days at the cottage in a far deeper and crueler silence than either of them were used to. 

She didn’t know. She just _didn’t_ know. And she wasn’t brave enough to ask straight out. So instead she texted Olenna to pick her up at the end of the day, unwilling to sit through an awkward car ride with Jorah that might determine it too finally, one way or another.

Olenna agreed, as long as Daenerys promised to join her for dinner. She would be on her way back from a board meeting that had been raging since mid-morning and she was famished. So they stopped by a café in Le Panier, where Olenna terrorized the waitresses in her usual, mostly-harmless fashion (“But what do you actually want to be? One cannot be a dressed doll for their entire lives, _n’est-ce pas_?”) and Daenerys picked at her salad until every leaf of green lettuce and stem of purple radicchio was shredded into pieces.

“ _Monsieur_ Mormont must be leaving soon?” Olenna asked Daenerys, who neglected to look up from her mutilated salad. Her fork continued scraping across the greens.

Daenerys nodded this time. One day. One, last day.

“Well, is this your happy face, _mon trésor_?” Olenna wondered. She clapped her hands together, with animation, “We should be celebrating. It was a first step and you managed it wonderfully. _Vraiment_ , Daenerys. I’m very proud of you for sticking with this. Like a dragon…”

Her aunt was being supportive but Daenerys wasn’t really listening. Her wandering fork split into the lemon wedge at the side of her salad plate, as she dug at the white seeds within absently, wondering why she had a sudden urge to sit in the shade of a lemon tree.

With Jorah Mormont.

Or do anything at all. _With_ Jorah Mormont.

But in a day, he would be gone. And they would likely never see each other again. And the memories of these quiet weeks—the tea, the ham and cheese sandwiches, the steady sound of his typing in the front room, the way he smiled when he passed her in the hall, all of it—would become as dusty as those dusty photographs stored in a shoebox in the cottage’s crawlspace.

Forgotten. Gone.

Perhaps that was the way it was supposed to go. What was fate anyway? Just a fairy tale that children are told to make them feel safe and like everything will be all right.

But everything isn’t always all right. Sometimes brothers are cruel. And parents die. And love is one-sided.

Olenna’s phone buzzed on the café table between them.

“Ah, and you are rewarded for your diligence,” Olenna mentioned, as she read the text. She turned the screen and slid the phone towards her niece, “You have reached the finish line. Yes, we should order some pie to celebrate. Or cake? You, _mademoiselle_ , come here. Do you still have those delightful lemon cakes on your dessert menu?”

As Olenna caught the attention of the red-headed waitress once more, Daenerys read the text message: 

_Olenna, thanks as always for the use of the cottage. I’ve decided to head home early. I’ll leave the keys on the front table tonight and you can pick them up in the morning. Joyeux Noël._

The name at the top of the text thread read “Jorah Mormont.” And the words, as harmless and genteel as they could be, froze Daenerys’s blood cold. As cold as she would ever be. He was leaving. Early.

He was leaving and she would never see him again. 

She would never get the chance to tell him…

Impulse and rash decisions ran in her family, and Daenerys had spent years attempting to run clear of that branch of the Targaryen tree. Olenna said it was to her credit and “that’s why you’re my favorite.” So Olenna would likely judge her harshly for what she did next.

But there was no time to explain. Daenerys reached across the table and snatched Olenna’s keys from out of the older woman’s purse.

* * *

He couldn’t look at the tea she brought him that afternoon. He couldn’t bring himself to look at _her_. For if he looked at her, he might say something he would instantly regret.

_Sometimes I look at you and I can’t believe you’re real…_

This wasn’t a line. It was the simple truth, and Jorah was shocked at how deeply he felt, despite knowing how hopeless it all was. And yet, he couldn’t shake the feeling that this unassuming woman was somehow sewn into the fabric of his life—with silver-blonde threads that punctured his very soul.

Had they known each other in another life? It was a foolhardy notion, but the best he could come up with. For why else would he have this overwhelming impulse to protect her, to keep her safe, to make her smile. He couldn’t shake it. It was swallowing him whole. 

And it was getting worse, with every successive hour spent near her. Somehow, he knew, this was not a feeling he was going to be able to shake for a long, long time.

But Daenerys…

No, he knew what her answer would be. She was sweet and kind. She had a gentle heart. She would tiptoe around his feelings, as she likely had been attempting to do the night that Daario showed up. He assumed now that she’d been trying to tell him that she had a boyfriend and that any flirtation or whatever had been happening between them was…well, that was the end of it.

He tried to pretend, he tried to put her out of his head. But it was no use, especially when she was in the cottage. He spent the day in his bedroom, not writing at all. He was too miserable to write. He was too miserable to do much of anything. How had he let that young woman have such a huge chunk of his heart in such a short period of time?

He’d been with Lynesse for years. He’d known Daenerys a mere six weeks. And they hadn’t so much as kissed. A glance here, a shared moment of silence there, a few words written on a little notepad. It was all fragments. Fleeting moments. And yet, he felt the impending separation from her with such acuteness, he could hardly breathe.

As if he’d taken a thousand blows to the chest, his lungs now failing. He wondered if this was a projection of the grief he should have felt after ending things with Lynesse, manifesting itself in the oddest of ways. 

But no, when he examined his heart honestly, Lynesse didn’t live there anymore. Perhaps she never lived there, as she was nowhere to be found. Not a lingering scent, not a kind word.

It was only Daenerys. Daenerys and the shy smiles she gave him as she brought him a cup of tea. Daenerys and the pretty songs she played on that piano in the front room. Daenerys and the dragon tattoo that curled over the small of her back.

And later in the day, after hearing Olenna’s car pull up and Daenerys’s footsteps retreat from the cottage, he knew he couldn’t spend another day in this place. Not with only a wall between them. Not while knowing it was the last day he would ever hear her footsteps or see her smile or hear her fingers travel across those piano keys.

He had the sudden urge to leave. Not urge. _Need_. He couldn’t stay. Not a moment longer.

If he stayed, he would do something stupid. Like tell her how he felt. He knew himself well enough. 

So he sent Olenna a text and started packing. It didn’t take long. He always travelled light, a side effect from his younger years, when he was little more than a nomad, trying to run away from his mother’s death and his crumbling relationship with his father.

_The things we love destroy us, Jorah. Remember that._

_I remember, Father. But remembering doesn’t make it hurt any less._

He spent a few minutes down at the dock, taking the last of the bread down to feed the ducks. He tried not to think about Daenerys, but it was a vain effort. She was part of the cottage to him now. Her presence was like sunlight that he never knew was missing, filling every room with vivid color that reflected off the lapping water below.

The foolish part of him, the part his father would likely shake his head at, wondered if he’d been drawn to the cottage for so long because fate or God knew that someday, she would be here too and that their paths would cross. The thought was both comforting and devastating at the same time, as he knew he could never return to this place. Never again. No matter how peaceful, no matter how beautiful.

Without her presence, it would feel haunted. And he knew his heart couldn’t take that sort of haunting. He wasn’t that strong.

Night fell early this time of year and the full winter moon cast a silver sheen over the lake water. He could see his breath in the evening air and only belatedly realized he wasn’t wearing a jacket. But there was no cure for the cold he felt.

Eventually, he trudged back up to the house, carrying his suitcases and typewriter out to the car in two easy trips.

The sound of tires on gravel reached his ears just as he was loading the last of it. In the dark, he couldn’t see the driver beyond their headlights. Perhaps it was Olenna returning, wanting to pick up the keys now rather than wait for the morning.

He waited, hoping she’d be quick. He was anxious to get on the road, with the intention of outrunning his own thoughts. Somehow. 

The car door opened and the driver got out in a rush. 

“Jorah, wait!”

* * *

“Jorah, wait!” the desperate words escaped Daenerys’s lips as soon as she stepped out of Olenna’s sedan. 

Jorah turned at the unfamiliar voice, his eyes going wide when he saw who it was. And at the words she spoke. 

_The words you spoke…_

Daenerys stopped in her tracks, her hand going to her mouth.

The sound of her own voice after so many years of not hearing it startled her as much as it startled him. She hadn’t planned it. She hadn’t tried in so long. It was a reaction to seeing him load the last of his things into the car, nothing more. His shoulders were slightly slumped, his back turned to her and she just needed him to stop. To turn around. To see. To _hear_ her.

And he did, his eyes seeking out hers immediately.

As her hand fell away from her mouth, she felt unabashed tears come to her eyes—of relief or astonishment or something else, she wouldn’t be able to say. But she let them flow freely now, when she’d forced them back earlier.

Jorah dropped his last bags on the gravel at his feet. They landed on the loose stone with a thud. He was breathing heavily, but didn’t dare take a step towards her. Waiting. For her. They stared at each other, illuminated by pale light—the silver moon above, the gold entry light affixed just above the cottage’s red door. 

They said nothing, not in words. But their eyes spoke volumes. And, in that moment, they both understood.

They understood _everything._

“Your voice…,” he breathed. The worry in her face melted away at his words and went soft at the expression stealing over his features—he _adored_ her. He couldn’t hide it. He would never hide it from her again. 

Daenerys smiled through her tears, wiping them away quickly. She hadn’t missed her chance. The chill in the December air was cool enough that it might grant Marseille an unlikely dusting of snow for Christmas, but Daenerys didn’t notice the cold tonight, despite having left her coat and that blue scarf at the café with Olenna. 

Too unused to her own voice, she didn’t attempt another word, as there would be time for that later. Besides, they didn’t need words. They would never need words.

With a deep sigh of relief, Daenerys ran to him, jumping into strong arms that gathered her up most willingly. 

She buried her head at his shoulder and curled her own arms around his neck, finding solace in an embrace that felt as familiar as slipping into a favorite sweater or sitting on a porch swing in the morning sun. 

In that moment, she knew this would be far from the last time he’d hold her and that deep, unshakeable knowledge gave her pause, filling her with the anticipation of days, months and years to come.

_With you._

When he finally set her down, she felt his grip loosen slightly but his hands remained at the small of her back, keeping her close, _wanting_ her close. She remained there, hands on his chest, fingers drifting up to explore the rugged contours of his face, as she’d been tempted to do for some time. She watched his eyes slide shut at her slow, careful touch, his slight intake of breath and the renewed grip at her waist betraying his feelings well enough. 

He was afraid he was dreaming. He was afraid she might disappear in the night.

_I’m real enough, Jorah_ …as her fingers wandered, she grinned at his groundless worry. All those fears and inadequacies cluttering up his head were such nonsense. And oh, she would banish those fears away—the sooner, the better.

As tiny flurries of white snow drifted down from the night sky, Daenerys leaned up on tiptoes and pressed her lips against his.


	8. VIII

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here's a fluffy little epilogue for all you lovely readers. You've all been so wonderful and kind, as always. Thanks to all :) So glad you enjoyed this fic and so excited to read the rest of the Jorleesi-flavored holiday stories still to come. YAY <3 <3 <3
> 
> P.S. I'll be back on the 19th to drop a couple fluffy holiday bombs with my partner-in-fluff, salzrand <3 Different AU, but same theme a/k/a JORLEESI FLUFF FOREVER XO 
> 
> Mwah!

_A few years later…_

“Ten minutes, _Khaleesi_ ,” the sound engineer gave his usual warning, adjusting his headset on his way by, headed for the crossover and the other side of the concert stage at a hurried pace, last minute preparations underway.

“I’ll be ready,” Daenerys replied, though her hands were occupied, checking her outfit, her heels, her intricately-braided hair, fiddling with the white fur on the child-sized earmuffs slung over her wrist. Her fingers wouldn’t keep still. 

She was a little nervous. 

This wasn’t a country festival or a county fair. This was her first major show since her parents and Rhaegar were still alive, when she was still only a child. And this time it was just her. All alone.

Well, not _all_ alone. 

She looked up at Jorah, who was standing beside her, and asked, “ _Am_ I ready?”

“You’re ready,” he confirmed, giving her a tender smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. The little girl in his arms did the same. He whispered to the toddler, “Tell Mama she looks beautiful, hmm? Maybe then she’ll stop fidgeting.”

“Pretty,” Jeorgianna answered, in her short-spoken way, still smiling. The words were obscured by the thumb in her mouth. Her vocabulary was limited by her age, but she used the words she knew appropriately. Daenerys grinned at her daughter and took a step closer to Jorah, to plant a kiss on the little girl’s cheek.

“Thanks, baby,” she said. She leaned up and took a kiss from Jorah while she was at it. As she pulled back, she admitted, “I don’t know why I’m so nervous.”

“I don’t know why either,” Jorah teased her lightly, amused that she still didn’t understand how talented she was, how beautiful, how…perfectly capable of doing whatever she set her mind to. Including commanding a stage in front of twenty thousand people. 

He turned serious, “You’re going to be wonderful, Daenerys. But if the crowd is too much or if you feel overwhelmed, just turn around and walk back to us. We’ll be right here, okay?”

“Okay,” Daenerys forced herself to breathe, the fluttering host of butterflies in her stomach growing a little calmer at his words.

Jorah’s phone gave a sudden, low beep. He shifted Jeorgianna in his arms as he pulled it from his back pocket to read the incoming text message.

“Who is it?” Daenerys wondered.

“Olenna,” Jorah replied. “She wants to know if we want the cottage for Christmas this year?”

Daenerys nodded, “She should know the answer to that question by now.”

_Yes_. The answer was always yes. 

“But ask her about reserving a week next summer too,” Daenerys reminded him. If Olenna had learned to swim in those waters a thousand years ago, it seemed fitting that her grandniece should do the same. Daenerys added, with gentle encouragement, “And make sure to invite your father to come with us.”

“Grandpa,” Jeorgianna echoed her approval of the plan with another grin, wide enough that dimples appeared on her little cheeks.

“Aye,” Jorah deferred to his wife and daughter in this, as he had no choice. But he knew Jeor loved his granddaughter enough that he might even agree to venture down from his windy, wild Scottish isles, if only for a little while. 

He and his father were beginning to see eye-to-eye on a little more every year. Thanks most of all to Jeorgianna.

The crowd outside began cheering a little louder, as show time was swiftly approaching. Daenerys took the opportunity to slip the furry little earmuffs on Jeorgianna, while Jorah typed out his reply message with one hand. 

Another text happened to come in as he was answering Olenna. 

His eyes registered surprise at the news, whatever it was. But in a good way. Before Daenerys could ask, he turned the phone so she could see. It was his publisher, confirming that his latest book was outperforming its projected sales and that he should expect another royalty payment in the mail shortly. At this rate, he might not be just a journeyman writer much longer.

“Bravo,” Daenerys gave his elbow a slight squeeze, as proud and happy with his accomplishments as he was with hers.

“I told you…,” he replied, with a wink. “I just needed a love interest.”

“I won’t argue with that,” she answered his tease with her own, leaning up against his tall frame once more, her fingers crawling up his shoulder with one hand, while sliding around Jeorgianna with the other. She would never grow tired of discovering that everything she loved and held dear could be contained in such a simple embrace. 

“Two minutes, _Khaleesi_!” another crew member insisted from further up the wings, a little shrilly, bending his head towards the stage at a dramatic angle. He was one of Tyrion’s hires, high-strung and probably overpaid. But she knew if she kept him waiting much longer, they’d send Tyrion over to collect her himself.

And Tyrion never appreciated being called away from the refreshment table.

“Two minutes, _Khaleesi_ ,” Jorah repeated, much softer than the others, nearing a whisper, his deep, slightly raspy voice curling around her stage name in a way that no one else in the world could manage. It was only after he started saying it that she grew to like it at all.

To _love_ it, even.

Out of habit, Daenerys reached for the nearest scrap of paper, a flyer for the show, and grabbed a random pen from where it had been abandoned on a nearby speaker. She propped the flyer against his chest and wrote three words.

_I love you._

When she was finished, he gently stole that pen from her hands, motioning for her to turn slightly so he could use her shoulder as a makeshift desk. She did as he asked, gathering her hair to one side before reaching up to hold the flyer in place. Jeorgianna leaned forward in her father’s grasp, stretching out her little hand to help her mother keep the paper flat and steady for Jorah’s use.

_I love you back._

Daenerys grinned at the message, with a slight sheen of saltwater teasing at her eyes. She tore off the part that mattered, folding it and slipping it between her hand and the microphone where she would keep it until the show was over. As a token, a reminder. _Just in case._

She accepted another set of kisses—from her husband, from her daughter—before taking a deep breath and turning slowly, hands still fidgeting, fingers drumming and twisting against the stem of her microphone. As the chants of the crowd started to swell, Jorah gave her a gentle push forward and she found that the first step was followed by a few more. 

Before stepping out into the lights, she looked back once to catch Jorah’s lingering, affectionate gaze, nodding her forward, and Jeorgianna, blowing a kiss. Daenerys blew her one back, her hand finally finding a useful occupation.

One last pause, one last breath. She walked out on stage, where the thunderous applause of twenty thousand excited fans welcomed her warmly.

_Lo, how a rose e’er blooming…_

_A love e’er blooming too._

And never would it fade.


End file.
